Why Do I Write?

Street Art Oslo

When you were just a little kid, who did you want to be when you grow up? Back when you feared so much less and dreamed so much bigger. What objects, thoughts, activities were you drawn to the most?

Do you believe we come into this world already knowing for what purpose and then just forget it, just the way we forget where we’ve come from in the first place? I must say I do, I do believe in that.

I was drawn to books from a very early age. Rumour has it I’ve started reading when I was four, mostly thanks to my nine years older sister and her ever-growing stash of books. Apparently, I’ve also had a tendency to draw on them, hence the stash.

Fairy-tales, poems, dictionaries, lyrics, magazines, even instruction papers – I couldn’t walk past a chance to do some reading and learn new words. Words. I’ve felt their powerful call and I’ve answered.

To me, the thought of one day becoming a writer was as awe-inspiring, magical, fantastical, mysterious, and almost impossible as to other kids was the thought of becoming an astronaut. I had no idea how anyone manages to write a book hundreds of pages in length, from start to finish, coherently, with chapters, no typos. But I knew that somehow it must be possible to me too and that it would feel like the biggest accomplishment ever.

Now I know that my chosen form of writing is less important than realising that writing itself is my chosen/given form of expressing the message from within, from above, from below. My tool for understanding and communicating my own self and life at large.

“If you can live without writing then don’t write!”

I don’t remember who exactly expressed this paraphrased thought, but it hits home every time I think about it. The funny thing is that there were periods when the quote has been an inspiration to work and then there were so many periods when it had stood as my excuse to give up.

But I can never give up for long. No matter how many strong dark forces, such as fear, self-doubt, and creative resistance try to derail me from my aspiration, the urge to write never goes away. Never ever.

The texts sit there in my throat, in my heart centre, in my gut, waiting to be expressed on paper. If they’re not, they start to accumulate as this sticky black energy clogging my body and my soul and manifesting as anxiety, depression, bitchiness, nightmares, mental fog, bad choices – you name it.

After years and years of torturing myself by resisting my calling, I have to admit my defeat – I can’t live without writing.

And with the recent massive positive changes in my love, mental, spiritual, and physical life I know that I don’t need to hide behind the veil of a niche, such as cinema used to be, because I and my thoughts about life are enough to write about. I am my own niche.

Writing is my connecting thread to the cosmos, to other humans, but probably more importantly to myself. Observing and analysing are my natural states of mental being. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, I love it, that’s who I am. But if I don’t write my analyses down, I risk them becoming unhealthy ruminations.

Why do I write?

Because it’s the hardest thing for me to do and yet at the same time feels like the most natural and rewarding thing to do.

My writing will not move the mountains or change the course of the river. It will not stop wars or bring the dead back to life. It will not change the history of literature or even the history of blogging.

But there is at least one thing that my writing will certainly do. And if it does more than that, that’s a bonus.

There is only one major reason for me to continue and never stop writing: it makes me happy and fulfilled.

And that is grandiose.

Because if I’m happy and fulfilled, people around me feel more of the same.

If someone reads it and gets inspired, gets a fresh perspective, reevaluates and reimmerses themselves into the ins and outs of that particular human condition, then that means I’m walking my path and I’m serving the others, giving back to the community the fruits of what I call my gifts, a unique narration of my life lessons, my verbal expressions of my life experiences.

What should I actually write about? Should I use my real name? What language should I write in? Am I good enough in English to not make a fool of myself?

Does anyone even read blogs these days? Should I write a book? Fact or fiction? Who would even care about the story of a complete nobody?

I’ve come to a realisation that no matter what kind of question arises in my mind that makes me doubt my writing thus preventing me from actually engaging in the act is nothing else than a distraction. Fear, or what Steven Pressfield calls Resistance, which he so powerfully wrote about in The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles (couldn’t recommend it enough!), is in a constant battle with guilt in those who are pursuing their soul’s calling, be it artistic, entrepreneurial, or otherwise daring.

The fear speaks about an unreasonable foreboding of failure, humiliation, disapproval after being vulnerable enough to share a precious part of yours with the world. The guilt, on the other hand, is no less vicious a feeling burning you from the other end. The guilt against your soul for ignoring its whispers and pleads. The guilt against your future self for filling up your future years with regrets.

What have you been resisting all your life? Are you ready to commit to your happiness?

Be honest with yourself and just do it. You know you don’t have any choice, not really.

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Featured image: street art in Oslo, Norway

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